


Shut Up and Dance With Me

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Snowed In, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 08:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3374510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The weather outside is frightful, leaving Emma and Killian trapped alone together in David's New Hampshire cabin with a lot of unresolved feelings and no place to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Up and Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt:
> 
> Emma, Killian (friends who are very attracted to each other but will never admit it) and their friends go for a weekend to mountains. Somehow, the two of them get snowed in and smut ensues.
> 
> Co-dedicated to the ridiculous amounts of snow Boston has received this winter.

Her phone rings while Emma's eating cereal for lunch and laughing over a trashy magazine, pretending not to be an adult. Which is how _she_ prefers to spend her time over a long weekend, thanks anyway, guys: lazing around David's New Hampshire getaway house. Not traipsing all over Mount Washington playing terror tourist like David  & Mary Margaret, or trying to kill herself by flinging herself down a snowy slope, like Ruby & Graham.

She swallows her Froot Loops while dropping the supermarket rag on the table ("You Might Be Looking For a Lumberjack", depending on your feelings about things like flannel and beards; the chances of that being true are apparently high enough to rate a _quiz_ ), and glances at the number listed before picking up. If it's work, they can go screw themselves; Emma is on _vacation_. 

It's not, and so she answers it.

"Hey, so, you guys should be fine," Ruby says, as if they'd been in the middle of a conversation, and not as if Emma's brain hasn't quite made it into talking-to-people mode. "There's plenty of food--and booze, of course, but you know that, you brought most of it--"

"Wait, wait," Emma says, trying to get a handle before this spirals any further out of control. "Ruby, slow down. What's going on?"

There's a pause that somehow manages to convey Ruby's amusement, and then she says, "You haven't looked outside lately, have you?"

Emma looks past the kitchen island to the window over the sink. The trees outside are blurred nearly unrecognizable by a haze of thickly falling snow. Everything in the yard is already covered in a heavy mantle of white, all the edges rounded off, leaving behind strange, alien shapes. "Holy crap."

"Yeah. It's supposed to keep dumping for--a while, they say. Actually, the phrase 'potentially historic' was used, which should never be followed by the word 'blizzard,' like, ever."

"No shit." It's beyond eerie how the world outside the house is just-- _gone_. Vanished like a dream.

"So, David says that the guy will come to plow out the driveway sometime tomorrow, after the storm's over and the roads open up again. We're just gonna stay here at the lodge tonight, and like I said, you guys should be all set. Killian _is_ there with you, right?"

"I think so," Emma says, though she realizes she hasn't actually seen housemate number six this morning. Then she hears a door slam, and the thump of boots being stomped clean in the mudroom off the kitchen. "Yeah, he's here. Or else a random intruder managed to climb up that steep-ass driveway in the middle of a snowstorm."

"Oh, good--I didn't want you to be all alone in the house," Ruby says, ignoring the dig. Nature girl that she is, she loves David's place in the mountains. Then again, _she's_ not the one who almost got stuck partway up the slope two years ago; Emma's poor Bug really wasn't meant for icy mountain roads.

"I _like_ being alone," Emma grumbles.

"No, you don't," Ruby chirps, with a smugness that probably comes from knowing that Emma can't currently get back at her. "Anyway, we just didn't want you to worry. See you tomorrow--have fun, you guys!"

"Right," Emma says, but the line's already dead. 

Stuck inside with Killian all day. 'Cause _that's_ not going to be a special kind of torture.

She stuffs another spoonful of cereal in her mouth, then goes to check in with him--and also, because old paranoid habits die hard, to make sure that it's _not_ a random intruder. 

(Or a particularly clever bear, or something. She's seen the YouTube videos where they steal whole dumpsters from restaurants, which is a level of reasoning that she's not comfortable with in giant furry killing machines. Red of tooth and claw, and all that.)

She cracks open the mudroom door just in time to see Killian, still bundled up, slapping his snow-crusted beanie against his leg, scattering icy clumps on the mat. He looks up at her and grins, whiter than the snow. "Stand back, lass, or you might get dripped on."

"Don't worry. I'm not the Wicked Witch, I won't melt." But she doesn't venture any further than the doorway, anyway, because she's only in her nice gray hunting socks, and getting socks wet while wearing them is both sad and awful. Especially when it's cold.

"Well, then, perhaps you should stay back in order to avoid the temptation that lies before you," he says, waggling his eyebrows and gesturing at himself. It's the kind of thing he says _all the time_ , but this time, Emma can barely keep a straight face. He's in a parka and a scarf and heavy-duty gloves, just completely _caked_ in snow, way more so than the storm seems to warrant.

She has to bite her lips to get a little control back. She waves at his--everything--and says, "What'd you do, roll around out there?"

He cocks his head and gives her an arch look. "While I was outside seeing to our supply of firewood," he says, nodding to the rack beside the door (some of it new-hewn and wet, and now she feels a tiny bit bad), "I was the victim of an inopportune wind gust and an overladen pine tree."

"Ambush, huh?" she says, trying to convey her thanks in a softer, commiserating tone.

"Not at all sporting," he says, and shakes his head in disapproval as he unwinds his scarf, but the gleam in his eyes says she's forgiven for being snippy.

There are downy white flakes caught in his eyelashes, not yet melted in the unheated mudroom, and she can see that his cheeks and nose are ruddy from the cold and damp from his unfortunate drenching. She finds herself wondering if his lips are cool, too, if it would take long to warm him up, if she were to press her palms to his cheeks and drive the cold from his mouth with her own.

_Down, girl_ , she thinks, immediately followed by, _Shit, maybe I_ do _want a lumberjack._

"Swan?"

He's staring at her, brow furrowed and concern in those terribly blue eyes. She shivers, and it's not entirely due to the cold seeping through her suddenly inadequate pajamas. "I'll--let you finish up," she says, and closes the door a little too hard in her haste. Scooping up her bowl of cereal, she flees upstairs to her bedroom, and can't pretend she didn't do exactly that.

It's not that she hasn't thought about it--about _him_ \--before; thought about, maybe fantasized about, maybe possibly perhaps had a few really good dreams about, the kind that gave her a little trouble looking him in the eye the next time she'd seen him. But for one reason or another, it was never the right time to actually give it a shot with him, to take him up on one of his many ( _many_ ) offers. In the meantime, she collected herself a string of bad dates and bad choices and worse break-ups, and then she just wasn't the right _person_ anymore, the kind who took risks like that. 

Then, suddenly, college was over and everyone in their circle of friends was paired or pairing up, and it felt like the two of them were being forced together, just so the leftovers wouldn't get left behind.

Even on this trip--David & Mary Margaret, Ruby & Graham, they're the ampersand couples, and Killian and Emma are the odd members out.

And maybe, yeah, she's thought about more than just the physical. She's always felt like there might be something there, some deeper connection beyond their sardonic friendship, the way they give each other endless shit but always, always show up, whether it's for moving day or a ride home from the bar. But she's never been sure whether Killian felt that way, too. Sure, he flirts like breathing, but Emma's the only free target in the area, so of _course_ , she gets the brunt of it.

But she doesn't want to be anyone's last choice. She wants to be chosen first.

That thought is cold comfort as she scrapes the last of the sugary milk out of her bowl, but cold comfort is better than none.

(Hey, look, a blizzard joke. See? She's fine. Cool, even.)

* * *

She stays in her room while the shower starts up in the bathroom down the hall, and when it shuts off, she waits a few, then gathers her own toiletries. The bathroom door is standing open when she glances down the hall to check, so she doesn't bother knocking, just walks right in.

Only to stop dead, because Killian's in there, shirtless, and shaving, and also--shirtless.

"Sorry, I didn't realize--" she says, almost stumbling over the words. Her mouth is the _only_ part of her that's moving, though, the rest of her frozen just inside the bathroom. 

The tiny analytical part of her brain that's still working reminds her that there's another door right behind him, leading to his bedroom, and the bathroom's a weird shape so you can't see the sink from the hallway door, because weird old New England houses like David's are built like that, and really, she should have thought about that before making assumptions about the bathroom being free.

The rest of her is telling it to _shut the fuck up_ because the view is unbelievable.

"It's not a problem, Swan," he says, and he sounds so blasé that now Emma _can't_ back out, not without giving away how badly he's affecting her.

As much as he tends to tease her--mercilessly, she would have said, before now--it seems like he's been _underselling_ himself all this time. She knew about the chest hair--he does like to show it off--but she had no idea about the muscles, how trim and cut he was. She wants to run her palms over his shoulders, trace her fingers across his collarbones, skim her nails down his flanks and follow the lines arrowing down under his low-slung sweats; it's a good thing she's paralyzed, because that paralysis is saving her from herself.

His eyes leave the mirror, meeting hers, and she shakes her head, trying to rattle some sense back into her brain. "So--looks like we're stuck here for a while," she says, pointlessly, but hey, she's looking at his _face_ and that came out in _English_ (she thinks), so she's calling it a win.

"Indeed." He gives her a quick smile, then reaches down to rinse his razor in the sink. "Well, there's three floors, and only the two of us--we should be able to stay out of each other's hair. Wouldn't want cabin fever to set in."

"Right," she says, though she finds the idea kind of disquieting. They _are_ friends, after all, and just because she's getting lost in her own head doesn't mean they actually need to avoid each other. "Sorry, again, for barging in."

"No worries, love." He tilts his head back to neaten up the scruff under his chin. She finds herself holding her breath as she watches him work, and she's not sure whether she can really hear the rasp of the razor over the tiny hairs there, or just imagines that she can. He flicks shaving cream into the sink, then winks at her. "After all, If I'd been truly indecent I would've locked the door." He bobs his head back and forth, giving her a playful smolder that's as ridiculous as it is effective, making her stomach do a lazy flop. "Well, I might've."

She rolls her eyes, and he unstops the sink, then wets his hand under the faucet and scrubs it over his face. "All yours," he says, slinging his towel over his shoulder and stepping back from the vanity. He must be able to tell that he got under her skin, because he looks way too satisfied with himself, and that can't be allowed to stand.

"Wait," she says, and he pauses halfway to his door.

She steps in close--forgetting until the last second, as always, how much taller he is when she's not in some kind of heels--and reaches for the underside of his jaw. He goes very still, watching her hand the whole way, until he loses sight of it under his chin, and then his eyes snap up to her face.

She sets her fingers on his neck and rubs her thumb over a smear of shaving cream, feeling the gentle bristle of his beard against her skin. "You missed a spot," she says in a half-whisper.

Two can play that game, after all, and it's so much simpler without an audience set on matchmaking studying their every move.

But she's not quite prepared for the way his eyes widen, or the swallow she can both see and feel under her palm. "I'm in your debt, Swan," he says, his voice not quite smooth and not quite steady, and she blinks, taken aback.

He lowers his chin just a hair, and that's when she realizes just how close her face is to his. The spicy scent of his shaving cream is winding through the air, along with the pleasant tang of his soap and shampoo, urging her to do something impulsive and--

Stupid. Very, very stupid. They're trapped alone together, and as big as this house is, it's not enough room to run from a mistake.

"Don't mention it," she says, stepping back, letting her hands curl around the edge of the countertop.

He watches her for a beat, his eyes intense and serious, and she has to look away, over his shoulder. He nods to her, then steps through the door to his room, shutting it behind him.

* * *

Emma turns the shower up high, since they're alone and she doesn't need to save hot water for anyone else, but that _alone_ part wobbles around in her head. It goes along with everything else that's whirling in there.

She almost never lets herself flirt back, not with so many well-meaning but exasperatingly watchful eyes on the two of them; she just blows him off, knowing Killian will take it in stride. "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take," he'd told her once, with a shrug, and she'd snorted and told him that no one with that accent should be quoting Wayne Gretzky.

But this time, she'd really _gotten_ to him; she can just _tell_ , the way they've always been able to sense each other's moods. 

What's more, this time it felt _real_.

Maybe it's because they're alone, all by themselves in their cocoon of snow, cut off from everything and everyone out there. Maybe she's finally in the right place at the right time to give it a real shot.

Then again, maybe she's just jumped straight to stir crazy.

After she towels off and retreats to her room again, she tries to lose herself in Netflix on her tablet (though they might be in the mountains, David understands the importance of Wi-Fi, thank god). But it's pointless. The snow outside is muffling all sound, and it's too damn quiet for her city-girl sensibilities; the silence is distracting, and her thoughts keep drifting to Killian, wondering what he's up to.

She snaps the cover of her tablet closed with a click and a sigh. Apparently even in her own head, she can't get away. But when has she ever been backed into a corner and not come out swinging?

She gets dressed, going for something a little more put together than "slob around the house" but not overboard, and then goes off to hunt her housemate.

She finds him in the basement--which hardly seems like the right word; it's fully finished and furnished, but the front door is one floor up, so. Her socked feet make no noise on the carpet (these have little anchors on them, actually a Yankee swap gift from Killian, and she's not sure whether she picked those on purpose or just wasn't thinking at all), and she's able to sneak up on her quarry. 

He's tucked into the bend of the giant L-shaped sofa, dark head bent over a book and long legs crossed at the ankle; there's a fire going in the fireplace, taking the edge off the chill that permeates the house, even when the central heat is going.

"Hey," she says, feeling oddly shy and inexplicably tongue-tied; her bravado's evaporated at the sight of him.

He raises his head but doesn't seem startled--maybe she hadn't been as stealthy as she thought. "Swan," he says, and he's polite and not unwelcoming, but there's a little bit of wariness there that she's not used to from him.

_If you're gonna do it, do it, Emma._ "So, I understand if you're busy," she says, glancing down at his book. 

"Not at all," he says, giving her a quiet little smile and snapping his book shut before placing it on the coffee table, swinging his legs off the sofa. "I'm always free for your lovely self, darling."

"Can I sit?"

"Of course." He gives her one of his thorough, searching looks, and she wonders if her turmoil is visible to him (mild panic, the hot new color this year). His face softens, the distance she saw there gone completely. "What is it, Swan?"

She sinks onto the edge of the cushion next to him, folding her hands tightly together to keep from fidgeting. "I need to know something."

"All right." He's almost mirroring her, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, though his face is open and his hands are loosely cupped.

She takes a breath, and then asks, "Do you mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"Killian." Keeping eye contact with him is hard, harder than it's ever been--he's watching her so closely, worry etched into his forehead--but she really needs to know. "Upstairs, earlier. Hell, _all the time_. You, me--us. Do you _mean it_."

She can see the instant he understands, because something flickers across his eyes, and a faint blush seeps across his cheeks.

"Ah." He's the one to look away, now, and his mouth does something complicated, like he's trying to smile but can't quite get it to work. "That." 

"Yeah," she says, and her voice seems to die in the face of the silence that's squeezing all the air out of the room. "That."

He scratches at the back of his head, and finally glances back at her, only for a second. "Not to worry, Swan," he says, shaking his head, and, god, she is so utterly, monumentally stupid, to even _think_ \--

"It won't be an issue," he says, his voice so quiet and small that she's not sure she heard right.

Especially not with the way her heart is suddenly pounding.

"What?" she says, trying to catch up.

He looks up at her now, shadows in his eyes, and gives her a humorless laugh. "Well, it's never been an issue before, has it?" he says, and swallows. "Nothing needs to change." He looks down again. "I understand if you need some space," he says, shifting, like he means to stand up. "I'll just be--"

" _Killian_ ," she says again, catching his forearm to keep him in place, and when he raises his head, she kisses him.

At first, his mouth is slack with surprise, and she's gentle as she brushes her lips over his, just in case she misunderstood, just in case this isn't really what he wants. But he makes a helpless noise and reaches up to cradle her head, angling her to deepen the kiss, his mouth heated and hungry on hers. She's the one moaning now, her fingers digging through his hair, one hand braced against his shoulder because, _god_ , she had _no idea_.

The break for air doesn't clear her head at all, not with her forehead pressed to his, breathing his breath and tasting him on her lips.

"Okay," she says, when she remembers how to talk. "I'm glad we cleared that up."

He laughs breathlessly, all joy and disbelief. "Agreed," he says, and pulls back far enough to look at her, running his knuckles over her cheek. His whole face is lit up, and she can't help but grin back at him.

It feels like her entire body is buzzing, making her restless, her fingers moving over the back of his neck, and when he leans into the caress, she actually giggles. "So, what now?" he murmurs, his own hand combing gently through her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

She looks over her shoulder at the 50" plasma mounted over the fireplace. "Wanna watch a movie?"

* * *

They don't make it five minutes.

It's Emma's fault, probably, since she couldn't keep her hands from wandering up his Henley, all the buttons undone and just beckoning her on. Curling into his side had led to curling his chest hair around her fingertips, drawing patterns on his skin with her nails--but how could she resist, really, after the show he'd given her earlier? She'd looked up to see him watching her with dark eyes and licking his lower lip, and that was it.

Now she's straddling his hips, learning that he makes the most amazing noises when she nuzzles under his ear, nips at his neck, mouths the hollow of his throat. He nudges her back into another kiss, and the hands he's been flexing over her back are now sliding up her sides, under her shirt, until he's cupping her breasts and rolling circles over her nipples with his thumbs.

Her breath catches at the fire spiking through her veins, and she moans, arching into his hands. She feels him grin, and mumbles, "Shut up," against his mouth, but it comes out with no conviction, too breathy and needy to cow him at all. The bastard chuckles at that, and just to prove a point, she grinds her hips down against his.

And loses track of whatever point she was trying to make, because he's hard, and it feels like she's been wanting this forever, and just, _god, right there_. She shudders, continuing to rock against him, and gasps when he starts kissing his way up her neck. The scrape of his beard and the delicate lapping of his tongue over her skin are almost too much to handle.

Killian wraps his arms around her waist, his hips rising to meet hers, matching her rhythm and driving harder, until she's choking out a curse, her hands clenched hard around his shoulders as she rides out her orgasm. She keeps moving, still catching her breath when his thrusts turn desperate and he breathes her name into her neck in a broken voice.

They stay like that for a few moments, pressed together and panting. A laugh bubbles up in Emma, a mix of _wow_ and _finally_ and _oh my god_ , and she presses her mouth to Killian's to share it with him in languid, sweet kisses.

Just think what they can get up to with their clothes _off_.

"You know, we _both_ have perfectly good beds in this house," Killian murmurs, echoing her thoughts.

"Good point," she says, smiling at him, the light in his eyes, the hair falling over his forehead, looking less like a suave playboy and infinitely more interesting because of it. "Let's try one of those out."

* * *

"So," he says, nudging her shoulder with his. " _Are_ you looking for a lumberjack?"

They're sitting together at the breakfast bar, tall chairs pulled close enough to press against one another from knees to shoulders (which got a little awkward while they were eating, but neither of them wanted to move away). Emma's finishing up the last of her pancakes and eggs (yeah, they made breakfast for dinner, because Graham isn't here to object), and Killian's poring over the magazine Emma abandoned earlier.

They're both damp from their most recent, shared shower. Killian's just in another pair of sweats and a denim button-down that Emma won't allow him to button, the trade-off being that she's wearing just her underwear and one of his t-shirts. It's kind of a win-win.

She rests the point of her chin on his shoulder and smiles at his profile. "Why, are you offering?"

"Perhaps," he says, turning his head to give her a sly look, and immediately ruining the effect by rubbing his nose against hers. "You seem… satisfied… with my other qualifications," he says, raising his eyebrows in an implication that's not even in the same _state_ as subtle, "but according to this I need a flannel shirt. Let me raid Dave's closet, back in a tick."

She hooks her hand through his elbow. "On second thought, if I have to let you out of my sight, it's not worth it," she says, and he grins at her.

It's crazy just how quickly she's found herself in an easy physical intimacy with him, all those affectionate little gestures that make her roll her eyes when it's her friends doing them.

(Or maybe she's just been a little envious, all this time.)

She's not sure, though, whether it's just because they're stuck together in a bubble out of time, cut off from the rest of the world. Once reality comes crashing back in, Emma's not sure if she's ready for this, if she can stick it out without running.

But Killian just keeps looking at her with glowing eyes and a smile that's dangerously close to sappy, and the idea that _she_ can make someone look _that_ happy is a heady one.

He reaches over and covers her hand with his, lacing their fingers together. Something more serious is coloring his expression now, and she sits up a little straighter in response. "I have to ask, love," he says softly, and shakes his head once. "Why now?"

She squeezes his hand, and takes her time getting her thoughts together. Words aren't always her strong suit, and she understands that this is a big deal for him. 

And, yeah, okay, maybe a big deal for her, too.

She takes a deep breath, and says, slowly, "I was never sure you wanted me for me. That I wasn't just the only choice left for you." He looks like he's going to say something, and she shakes her head; instead, he strokes his thumb over hers. "But, earlier, I made you nervous, and that's when I realized maybe that meant you really _cared_." She brushes her free hand over his cheek. "I made you nervous, and it made me want to be brave."

She can feel her cheeks flush, but Killian's eyes are shining at her, so that probably came out okay.

"I'm glad that you were," he says, and raises their linked hands to press a kiss to the backs of her fingers. "As for the other part--you really don't know?" He cocks an eyebrow at her. "Emma, I fancied you the moment we met."

She blinks at him. "But that was--"

"A long time, and a lot of choices ago," he says, and smiles at her bewilderment. "Yeah."

"You never said anything."

He breaks into a laugh at that. "Didn't I?"

She shoves his shoulder with hers, which only widens his grin, the jackass. "Not like you _meant_ it."

"I meant every word. Well, most of them." He pulls his hand from hers, only to slip his arm around her waist. "Perhaps you weren't ready to hear it."

"Whatever." She rests her head against his shoulder, but only after poking him in the ribs to register her protest.

"Speaking of," he says, rubbing his cheek against the top of his head, "what do you intend to tell our housemates?"

"Oh, _god_." Emma covers her eyes with her hand. "Ruby's gonna go apeshit when we tell her. She probably would have trapped us together on purpose if the idea had occurred to her." There's an odd stillness to him, and she tilts her head to try to see his face. "Wait, you don't think she did, do you?"

He chuckles. "No. But I had thought you might wish to be more circumspect."

"As much fun as it might be to sneak around, number one, I'm not sure we're going to do a great job at keeping a respectable distance. I mean, considering the evidence." He tightens his arm around her almost ostentatiously, and she grins at him.

"And number two?" he asks, stroking his hand over her hip.

Number two is that Emma would be an even bigger idiot than she already is if she gave up even a second of this. She presses a kiss to his chest, and says, "I don't want to waste any more time."

So they don't.


End file.
